


Bridge Over Troubled Water

by apocahipster



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence, brief descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocahipster/pseuds/apocahipster
Summary: Aziraphale goes full angelic holy righteousness mode to bust Crowley out of hell





	Bridge Over Troubled Water

Aziraphale was someone who could comfortably read a five-hundred page novel in an afternoon and still finish early enough with plenty of time for tea. But right now, in his hands, he held a note which was only two and a fraction words long, and it consumed him. He read them over and over. Slowly, quickly, frantically, analytically.

_Angel theyre c_

It was distinctly Crowley’s cursive scrawl but dishearteningly rushed. The ‘C’ had a long tail which dragged off the page, the writing hand having been cut short in its task. He hadn’t even had time to put an apostrophe in the second word.

The letter was upsetting but not quite as disconcerting as the absolute disarray of Crowley’s apartment, which had been upturned from head to toe when Aziraphale had found it. There was also a distressing amount of demon blood on the walls, which to Aziraphale would be any amount of blood, let alone large streaks smearing multiple surfaces like bad paint swatches before a renovation.

Pots and plants were broken, scattered about the room and their soil had seeped into the carpet. Knives were strewn across the kitchen counter, one of them was lodged into a wall across the room. There was a bent statue on the ground with blood on a particularly pointy looking part of it. A makeshift bludgeoning weapon. Several black feathers littered the place. Aziraphale picked one up and drew it close to his face. He closed his eyes, breathed it in, the fluff tickling his nostrils. It smelled like Crowley. More so, it _felt_ like Crowley. Not much like him, just a whisper of the demon’s familiar and loving essence. It would be enough.

Aziraphale tucked the feather into his breast pocket and finished his investigation. The other rooms of the flat were untouched. Aziraphale wasn’t sure why, but he checked Crowley’s safe. It was, as expected, devoid of any thermos. He hadn’t given Crowley a refill and he hadn’t been aware of any attempt on the demon’s behalf to obtain more holy water.

Crowley had thought he was safe.

He hadn’t prepared for this.

Neither had Aziraphale.

Aziraphale locked the apartment door behind him, hoping none of the nearby residing humans would notice anything wrong. He began walking. He wasn’t sure where to, maybe back to his book shop? How long had it been since he had last seen Crowley? After the almostpocalypse they had seen each other hourly, practically joined at the hip. But as the weeks turned to months they had more or less gotten on with life. Splitting for the evening so Crowley could see a film Aziraphale didn’t care for whilst he read a book Crowley didn’t give a toss about. Knowing that they’d see each other soon enough.

They had grown comfortable. Too comfortable.

It had been almost a week since they had last talked. Time had just slipped away. Aziraphale cursed himself for having wasted any time apart from the demon. To take their brief window of peace for granted when he should’ve spent every waking and sleeping moment by his side.

_You foolish principality._

Crowley had thought he had been safe. Aziraphale had thought so too. That if anything bad were to happen Crowley would be there for him, the clever wily serpent capable of getting them out of any binding.

Crowley _would_ be there. For him.

And he would be there for Crowley. Without a doubt. Without hesitation.

The feather sang to Aziraphale and it called to its master, like a compass needle pointing true north. Except even without the guidance, Aziraphale knew where Crowley would be. And if he was going to go find his demon, first he would need a weapon.

It had taken all day to drag Crowley into hell. Although he was a somewhat pathetic demon, he was still very old and quite powerful; and in part due to his clever brain and in part due to his snake heritage, he was also _slippery_. He had escaped the iron grips of his captors several times although never for long. Running through burning office buildings, over infernal desks, kicking demonic ledgers in his wake, Crowley then felt the sharp slap of a whip at his heels and fell from the desk. He landed face first onto the stone floor, losing a tooth and tasting blood as it filled his mouth. Then he felt heavy metal bind his legs together and he was being dragged by his feet, his face scraping against the cold stone floor.

“You’re getting slower Crowley,” one demon who was not doing the heavy lifting huffed.

“Was worth a try,” Crowley said trying hard not to swallow the gravel being shovelled past his mouth.

“It really _wasn’t_. It looked like it took considerable effort. Futile of course,” the demon answered.

Crowley wriggled, flipping himself over so now his back was being scraped against the floor instead of his face. He tried to crunch his stomach, reach his hands towards the foot bindings, but a whip came down on his fingers. “Yowch!” It stung like all hell, but it did give him another idea. A moment later he reached again and under the sound of the whip crack he muttered an infernal chant casting a quick miracle.

He let his body go limp, feeling the rush of wind as large gates were opened and he was pulled into another, deeper, pit of hell. They had dragged him through three by now. Limbo was no place for demons to be imprisoned and he knew lust wasn’t really his scene but gluttony seemed like it would be fitting. Maybe it was more Aziraphale’s thing, the thought, as he was pulled into greed, the fourth circle. Before the doors had shut he felt something wriggle its way up his sleeve. It tickled but he let it crawl along his body hidden under his clothes.

The rat followed the command of his miracle, somehow traversing down through his skinny jeans and reaching the cuffs on his legs. It nibbled away with a demonic bite and then Crowley was free. This time he ran for a window. He took a running leap, curled his body ready to smash through the glass when there was a loud crack, a burning sensation around his shoulders, and he was pulled backwards by the whip now wrapped around his body. His head once again smacked into the ground beneath him. He let his body go limp as he was dragged, muttering out a half delirious, “Curses, foiled again.”

After his generous donation in Eden, Aziraphale had developed a sort of sword dysphoria. He had bought a few blades over the generations, but really decent swords cost a pretty penny which he was always more interested in investing towards rare books or extravagant pastries. He had been gifted two swords, one when he was knighted and another when… well that’s a rather private story.

He pulled out his knight’s sword. It was too thin and long for his liking. He preferred the short bulky kind of blade. The kind which can be swung with one arm and cleaves hefty dents into adversaries. Also, this one didn’t light on fire.

He gave it a test swing and accidently cut a slice into a poster on his wall. He didn’t really need a star chart from 450 AD anyway, he supposed. He put the sword down and glared at it. He supposed… he could dip it in holy water? That would wear off after the first demon or two though. And besides he had already invited too much negativity into his head thinking about this crumby sword. No, he needed his old familiar flaming sword.

Well, maybe not _his_ sword. They were all built identical anyway.

The sixth circle, heresy, was what was chosen for Crowley. Any further would’ve been too much of a compliment. To imply that Crowley, a run of the mill, mischievous at worst, demon was in enough trouble to be dragged to the deepest circle was praise he was not going to receive any time soon. Here he found himself on a cliff-face overlooking a rather sizable ocean of lava. Winged beasts screeched and soared through the air, presumably up to important work, or maybe that’s just what they did on their lunch break.

There were enchanted cuffs on Crowley’s wrists. With two quick stabs of a spear he fell to his knees. The chains on his cuffs were secured into the ground, and there he knelt.

“Best view in the house,” the demon whispered into his ear. “You can see the whole circle from here. Look at hell Crowley, all the mischief you’re missing out on. The family you’ve abandoned. Enjoy the view. It’s the only one you’ll get ever again.”

Sneaking into heaven wasn’t Aziraphale’s idea of an idyllic afternoon but he had enough determination, adrenaline and stupidity to carry out the task. Many angels didn’t recognise him, and he thought he played the role of spy well, smiling politely, throwing in an occasional, “Mondays am I right?” and “Keep fighting the good fight” and even one, “I’m glad it’s my turn for lunch hour in a tick,” as he made his way to the armoury. It was, of course, guarded. He was somewhat reluctant to knock out the guards, but time was of the essence and he had already used up all his good conversation starters. Stepping over the unconscious bodies, he rushed inside.

The armoury was expansive. There were enough principalities to demand their own shelf which stretched on into infinity. Luckily, it was sorted alphabetically, and Aziraphale easily found the box with his name on it. He blew a fine layer of dust off the top. He lifted the lid, a little giddy, and peered inside at a crown and a sceptre which had been waiting for him. They had been issued to him when he fell from cherub to principality, but he had never gotten around to claiming them. Neither of them really looked like a weapon but he placed the crown on his head and it fit perfectly. It was a strange feeling, both weighty and sturdy, yet not too heavy. As it weighed down on him it also made him stronger; perfectly balanced. He supposed he would have the chance to find out what it did soon enough.

The sceptre on the other hand felt completely useless in his grip. He absorbed both new tools into his divine essence, disappearing them from the naked eye. The box was otherwise empty, and he replaced it before making a dash towards the cherubim shelves. There were not many cherubim, and he didn’t recognise any of their names. He simply grabbed the first flaming sword he saw and gave it a test swoosh. His hands instantly counter balanced for the weight. “Just like riding a velocipede,” he said. “No, I was never very good at bicycles. This comes much more naturally.”

Crowley had been chained a long time. He wasn’t only chained in place, he was chained in form, unable to shift into his snake body or his occult one. He could feel his miracles just beyond his reach. His body was human, and his knees ached from kneeling. His throat burned having nothing to lubricate it, which mixed poorly with his cries of pain. His eyes and lungs strung from the constant stream of smoke surrounding him. The sleep deprivation tore pins into his head. His arms and legs cramped, and his muscles would spasm but have nowhere to move. And the screaming, oh the constant screaming, it almost made the Sound of Music seem bearable by comparison.

Besides, those demons had lied. The view wasn’t spectacular. After the first few hours it had grown repetitive. Lava, rocks, demons, more lava. Occasionally a brick would crumble off a building and fall into the infernal fire. How thrilling.

Of course, hell was a timeless place, and he soon lost track of days. With no sky and no wristwatch, it was a futile task he had given up on early.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley head into work many times, and he had even visited the place once. It didn’t take him long to find an entrance.

The first circle of hell was reserved for small level demons, all of whom took one look at the angel and cowered behind their desks in fear. To a human, Aziraphale looked just like an ordinary librarian who just so happened to be carrying a sword. It wasn’t even on fire yet. At worst he resembled a slightly ticked off librarian as he was stomped and glared in his walk. To every demon it was clear, he was on a warpath. He traversed his way unchallenged through the first circle of hell. The demon in charge of the circle, the guardian of the first gate, was the most powerful demon residing in this circle, but even he took one look at Aziraphale, saw the sword light up, and swallowed thickly. He raised his pitchfork and threw it at the angel.

It grazed Aziraphale’s shoulder, cutting a small tear in his coat and lodging itself in the stone floor. Without turning to look at it, Aziraphale yanked the pitchfork from the ground and plunged it deep into the demon’s chest. There was a hellish wail, and a minute later Aziraphale was stepping over the withering body. He made his way into the next circle.

Crowley’s greatest companion had always been his imagination. He began occupying his time by reciting the plotlines of the Golden Girls. He liked to imagine how the stories would be altered if particular characters were demons or angels. Then he began revising new gardening techniques. Ways of yelling at them, inflections he should try.

These were all thrilling and entertaining, but when the pain grew too strong, he thought of Aziraphale. It was the most efficient path to take to properly tune out the world.

Aziraphale was a creature of compassion. Not only could he sense pain when he was nearby it, but he would feel it personally. He had no choice but to. In the second circle, suffering human souls and tormented demons cried throughout the realm. Aziraphale summoned another set of eyes beneath his current ones. These eyes were reserved for crying while his current ones were working. Over the torment he searched for the one other emotion in hell, and he followed it, knowing where it was coming from. The was only one other creature here capable of love, and it also helped that that love was _for_ Aziraphale.

All of the demons in this circle challenged him. He smote three with ease. A swing of the sword and pitchfork in unison tearing them apart. When five more approached, Aziraphale drew out his first pair of wings. He opened several more of his dormant eyes which had almost gone blind with disuse over the millennia. This was enough of a display of force to get the demons to back off until he reached the leaders of this pit. Two archdemons, only younger than Aziraphale by two-thousand years or so. They were cocky and Aziraphale didn’t like their tone of voice. Aziraphale held up the pitchfork which was now dripping with tainted demonic blood.

Aziraphale took a few hits in this fight. It wasn’t the cuts or the bleeding which hurt, it was the demonic ichor which injected its way into his blood with each slash of their claws. Their evil malice sank into him, nibbling away at his heavenly grace. His right leg took the most hits and he felt rings and eyes of his angelic form burn. On a more physical level, his skin, muscles and bones began to seize up, losing their strength.

He let out a heavenly cry dealing the final blow, striking the demons down in unison. He spread another pair of wings and pulled his way through to the next circle.

Crowley imagined in great detail the process of tidying up his apartment. Maybe he would buy new furniture, something more up to date with modern internal decorating trends. Maybe he shouldn’t bother because sooner or later he would inevitably move into the angel’s bookstore. Or maybe they would both move somewhere else together.

It was a lovely idea, he just wasn’t sure if he was allowed to think of it as a plan for the future, a dream or an unrealistic escapist fantasy.

The third circle took a long time to fight through. Aziraphale donned his crown and felt the glow of his halo amplify tenfold, making some demons recoil and blinding lesser demons entirely. He opened more and more eyes on his wings in order to see over his own heavenly glow. He swung true, guided by his natural warrior’s prowess, his angel instinct to smite demons and his devotion to the one he was fighting for.

The sceptre came in useful in the fourth circle as he shoved it into the maw of a monster, holding its jaw open so he could plunge fire into its throat, tearing it asunder from the inside.

As Crowley grew more tired, and as pain took over all off of his senses, all he could think about other than his suffering was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was his only escape.

By the fifth circle Aziraphale’s wings had doubled in size and he had no more eyes to open up. He felt power coursing through his body. He was tainted by Crowley’s wicked words enough to admit that he was kind of having fun. He swung the pitchfork tearing a demon in half, the long way. Even though his body ached, having well lost track of how long he had been fighting for, demonic poison seeping into his veins forcing him to grow more and more limbs to syphon the corruption away from his vital organs, he felt so very, very alive.

The final battle of the fifth circle was almost his last battle ever. His throat was cut, and this crown was dented. His sword strikes grew sloppier, desperate. And he thought of his lover. Crowley’s laughter when they drank and sang songs together. Crowley’s tears when they watched a tragic movie or enchanting ballet. Crowley’s hidden kindness, under the radar miracles, hitting parking meters with his car, restoring the fallen ice-creams of foolish children.

There was a tug, demonic claws ripping feathers from Aziraphale’s wings, crushing several of his eyes and poisoning his grace as he was torn apart.

Aziraphale thought of Crowley.

He let out a cry, a scream, a prayer, and plunged his sword and pitchfork. In a mighty strike, he smote the beast.

Although hell was a big fan of fire and burning pits there was notoriously no sun. Crowley had been made to look upon this sky-less scene in this timeless place for so long he thought it would be dangerous to try to calculate just how much time had really passed. Regardless, he knew this scene. He knew every pebble, every tower, every demon. And he knew for certain, there was no sun…

… except now there was. There was a star in the sky. It rose from the ground, higher and higher, a pure light illuming the entire circle.

There was something about it, not like sunlight and certainly not like the light of hell’s lava. It was inviting. Calling to Crowley. Calling _for_ Crowley. The light was in love with him.

A moment later, crashing from beneath the ground, came demons in pursuit of the light. Several burned up on proximity, others made it closer. The epicentre was too bright for Crowley to look at directly, but when a demon disappeared into the light, a moment later they would fall down in two or more pieces, crashing into the sea of lava below.

The light wasted little time, growing stronger and stronger and Crowley had to shut his eyes but not before he realised that the light wasn’t growing in size, it was merely shrinking in distance. It was coming to him. And he thought one thought, not entirely his own. _Be not afraid._

“CROWLEY,” the voice came first as a boom. A moment later the feel of radiance piercing his skin was gone. “Crowley.” This time the voice was familiar. Homely. Down to earth. Crowley cautiously opened his eyes and before him was his angel like he had never seen him.

“Aziraphale,” he choked out.

His angel was kneeled before him dripping blood and ichor, panting and crying from eyes Crowley didn’t know he had. His wings were larger than Crowley remembered, and also he apparently had four of them. He wore a bent crown and sheathed was a sword which Crowley guessed was more than capable of igniting with holy fire on a whim. The angel looked so different to what Crowley had looked upon for six thousand years, and yet he was recognisable. Doubtlessly his Aziraphale.

Aziraphale let out a scream and a moment later the cuffs binding Crowley shattered to pieces. A heavenly miracle summoned deep in the pits of hell, overwhelming the will of several archdemons. Crowley had forgotten how to move, but now his body could move and having that much freedom overwhelmed him. He began to fall but the angel caught him, wrapping his arms around Crowley and holding him in a hug. He had to start recovering somewhere so Crowley first moved his hands and arms and held Aziraphale in return. He could feel the angel’s outpour of emotions. His warmth, devotion, love and anger. Crowley let his eyes slip shut, holding his angel, and for the first time in a long time the air he breathed in was clean.

There was a rush of wind as large wings were raised, and with another shout from the angel came a booming noise that would put a thunderstroke to shame. And then everything was dark.

When Crowley regained consciousness he was staring up at a starry night sky. Surrounding him was cool crisp air. Beneath him was green grass and beside him, an angel looking more or less like a librarian, lying on top of a bed of feathers.

Crowley indulged in his freedom for a moment before his mind caught up and forced him to move. “Aziraphale!” he said, scrambling to his knees. The angel did not respond. He was covered in open wounds, bleeding holy grace onto white feathers. Many of his eyes were still on his skin, although they were closed. When Crowley pried one open it did not respond.

He looked around frantically. They were certainly on Earth, and in the distance… oh blessed day, a church.

Crowley got to his feet, his legs wobbly from misuse and numb from being bent supporting his weight for so long. He had never been much good at using legs even before the torment, what with being a snake and all, and this just made the whole ordeal worse. Still, he hauled the body of his angel over his shoulders and began dragging the holy mass towards the healing beacon of the church.

It was an uphill climb and time was not on Crowley’s side. Reaching the front oak doors, he kicked them open and took his first step on consecrated ground in almost a hundred years. By the time he had pulled Aziraphale down the aisle to the pulpit his feet burned, and he would take a decent bet they were beginning to blister.

“Stick with me angel,” he muttered laying Aziraphale down. Crowley dashed about the church, grabbing rosaries and candles, a bible and a statue of Jesus. His fingers stung as holy imagery filled his arms, but he pushed on, arranging the rosaries around Aziraphale and lighting the candles with matches held in shaky hands. His demonic miracles had no place in this ritual. He cracked open The Good Book, lying it over Aziraphale’s chest. He clutched the statue and closed his eyes muttering a prayer. It burned his tongue, tasted like ash and cyanide, and he could hear the cursing cries of priests and demons alike damning him as he said righteous words. The amen choked his forked tongue.

Then he held his hands over Aziraphale and began to draw away his wounds. The demonic corruption left the angel’s wounds as he worked on them, the malice powering Crowley and immediately being siphoned into healing the scabs burning at his legs and knees from the consecration he was kneeling on. Still he was working to heal his angel and it was a net loss in terms of energy and power for Crowley.

He started with the large wounds, drawing the poison from them and stitching them closed. As he worked, he watched Aziraphale’s heavenly aura shrink and shrink, like a candle running out of wick and slowly dying. Crowley began to grow more desperate, and extremely frightened. He moved onto smaller wounds, making sure to tend to them all.

Last he took Aziraphale’s hands, fixing small scars and grazes, imperfections barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t a demon doting over every inch of his body.

Aziraphale’s halo had nearly flickered out.

“Angel, no,” Crowley whispered. He grabbed a rosary and began chanting more prayers, faster and faster with each verse. His tongue felt like a match on fire and tears dripped from his eyes, although not from the physical pain. He tilted his face away so the tears wouldn’t fall on Aziraphale, not wanting more demonic influence to touch the angel’s skin. “Please. Lord, please… anything. I’d do anything. Please. _Heal him_ … please.”

He could feel it on the back of his neck; practically hear it calling to him. The bowl of holy water. He let out a desperate whinge, running a hand over his angel’s unconscious face before standing and scurrying to the water.

“Why do they keep it in a heavy concrete trough?!” he growled. He was terrified by the whole concept, but losing Aziraphale scared him more. “Where do they keep the bloody cups?” He looked about the alter for a moment, tossing aside hymnals and donation coins. He would’ve found the Holy-bloody-Grail if his angel needed to drink from it, but he didn’t have time to search for that, let alone any other cup. “Come on demon, think, think, think,” he said tugging at his hair. So clever. He was _so clever,_ except now when it mattered most. Possibly the only time it had ever mattered.

He looked at Aziraphale desperately and then the idea struck. Hastily he took off his shirt, balling it up and dipping it into the holy water. In his rush over to the angel several drops flew, most resting harmlessly on his snakeskin shoes, but a few hitting his chest and burning like a lit cigarette pressed into his skin. More tears streaked down his face as he held the shirt over Aziraphale’s face and rung it out. Thankfully most of the water made it into Aziraphale’s mouth, but the angel was non-responsive still, unable to swallow. Instead Crowley could only hope that gravity and heaven would work together to pull the healing liquid into Aziraphale.

He repeated the trick twice more, on the third attempt accidently gripping the wrong part of the shirt and half of his hand burned away. He screamed. His voice echoed through the ceiling, designed high and hollow to carry prayers to God. His knees were burning, his legs having scabbed so badly that his pants were now soaked in his own blood. And none of it mattered. Not his pain, not his imprisonment. None of it.

Aziraphale’s aura was gone, at least beyond what Crowley could see anymore.

In his torture, the only thing which had kept him sane, kept him going, was picturing his angel in his bookshop, still living, still happy, still free.

And now Aziraphale was dying, or already dead. And he couldn’t save him.

It was meaningless. It was all meaningless.

He looked at his angel, his lips glistening with holy water. Useless fucking holy water. Crowley’s non-bloodied hand stroked Aziraphale’s wings. They had been torn up and stained with angelic and demonic blood, but they still carried that white softness which Aziraphale embodied.

The angel felt too cold.

This was Crowley’s last chance to make any of it count. Eden, the temptation, breaking the rules to see the angel time and time again, averting the apocalypse, being dragged to hell. His last chance to make any of it matter.

If there was a chance, just a small sliver of a chance that Aziraphale was still with him, this was his last chance.

He leant down and kissed his angel. Physically he felt nothing, certainly no kiss back. His kiss turned into sobbing into Aziraphale’s mouth, and then he held the angel tightly, pressing his face into his neck. Stifling his screams of pain. Searing pain on his knees, his melted hand and his heart being torn asunder. As he cried, he didn’t notice that he should’ve been feeling the burn of holy water on his lips also.

What he did feel, beyond the grief, was a pair of hands on his back. Holding him.

A gentle rattling breath.

A heavenly warmth.

Love.

“It’s alright Crowley, I’m alright. _We’re_ alright.” Aziraphale sat up. Crowley simply cowered in a ball, desperately holding onto his angel. In one proud motion Aziraphale stood and hoisted Crowley into his arms. Finally, the pain of the burning church grounds alleviated. Still Crowley cried. “It’s all okay now, we’re safe. I won’t ever let them take you again.”

He stood waiting for Crowley to calm. He could feel Crowley’s emotions more so than he could any other creature, even himself. Above all else Crowley was filled with panic. “Come back to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, planting a kiss to his hair.

“Angel,” was all Crowley could say. But Aziraphale could hear what the demon wanted to say. _Are you okay? Did I save you? Is this real? Is this part of hell’s tricks? Are you safe?_

“We’re going to be just fine,” Aziraphale said. The cherub was only just recovered but he carried Crowley with ease, holding him bridal style as he walked down the aisle of the church. In his night-vision blurred by tears Crowley could almost pretend the streaks of blood on the floor were roses lining the pathway.

Aziraphale carried him through the oak doors and down the stairs and Crowley was content to never leave his angel’s arms again.

**Author's Note:**

> i did a drawing on tumblr some ppl liked of a scene from this so, enjoy:  
> https://apocahipster.tumblr.com/post/186538259664/something-along-the-lines-of-aziraphale-going-full
> 
> az fighting through hell was inspired by the song bridge over troubled water  
> and crowley healing az in a church was inspired by annies song  
> i write almost everything to music so i mean, yeah whatever


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